This is such a fun series. If you haven’t read Jackie’s First Book, Hell’s Belles, you should. Jezebel is a blast of a character. A succubus escaping from Hell, stuck on earth and trying to live as a human while still retaining her demon dirty mind. So what does a demonic seductress choose as a human profession? A stripper, of course. Love her. Truly a funny, sexy, make-no-excuses character, and the first book was a riot.
The second is out now, and The Road To Hell was just as good as Hell’s Belles. I loved it so much I did a cover quote for it! :boobie:
Jezzie is still fighting Hell, still in love with Paul, her human boyfriend, and still juggling life on Earth.
Buy the book. Trust me, you’ll love it.
Juicy excerpt after the jump.
“I’m from Death Valley.”
“Really?” I smiled as I poured champagne into two long-stemmed flutes. Death Valley. Heh. People had such a sense of humor when it came to naming things. Take Slaughterville, Oklahoma, or my personal favorite: Hell, Michigan. There’s also Paradise, Pennsylvania, but I don’t hold that against them; they also have the spiffy town of Intercourse.
Handing a glass to the dark-haired man seated across from me, I said, “I’ve never heard of anyone actually being from Death Valley before. Scorpions and vultures, sure. People, not so much.”
He grinned, and a blush crept up his cheeks until it stained his big ears. Bless me, he was so endearing—he embarrassed easily and he was free with his money. What more could a girl ask for?
“Actually,” he said, “I just work there. I’m a park ranger.”
Ooh, a do-gooder. The last ranger I’d met had been of the bow-and-arrow variety, many years ago. Different beastie altogether. That ranger, a Royal Forester by trade, had been all too happy to bloody those he’d been sworn to protect in between bouts of raping women. Charming fellow. Sexy, in a pond scum sort of way. Remembering forest and frost and picking twigs out of his beard before our last romp in the crisp snow, I sank back onto the black leather sofa, feeling a smile stretch across my face.
Those had been good times.
“A ranger,” I said to my latest client, rolling the word on my tongue. I tucked my legs beneath my body as I inclined on my left elbow, making sure my boobs almost, but not quite, spilled out from my low-cut red gown. Why give something away when Ranger here would be all too happy to pay me? I flashed him my best Utterly Smitten smile. “I’d love to hear more about what you do.”
His blush deepened. “I guess that depends on what day it is. Sometimes I’m a tour guide. Sometimes I’m a naturalist. And then there’s times I have to be a cop.”
Ah. No wonder I’d taken a shine to him. Thinking of my own cop—who would actually be home tonight the same time I was, huzzah!—I asked, “Is there really that much trouble in the desert?”
“Well, not so much as like in the cities. But we get our share.” The redness faded from his ears and cheeks as he spoke, and something hard and proud flickered in his brown eyes. Watching Ranger transform from a blushing boy into a seasoned man sent a delicious tingle up my spine.
Stop that, Jesse. Don’t get all hot and bothered by the nice customer. A friendly chat, a little drink in the mega-expensive Champagne Room, a private dance or two, clothing optional. No more. “What kind of trouble?”
“We get our ravers, our smugglers, our scrappers. We even get our full-fledged homicidal maniacs.”
Ooh, really? How cool was that? “What sort of maniacs? Serial killers?”
Okay, nipples, that’s enough. Down, girls.
“Well, the Manson Family hid out in the Panamint Valley.”
“That part of Death Valley?”
“It’s part of the larger park, yeah.”
“Sounds like it can be dangerous,” I said, putting an extra purr in my voice.
He shrugged, but the flush returned to his cheeks. My Ranger was modest. “I patrol in a hummer, and I wear a bulletproof vest. That’s with the temperature soaring well past a hundred degrees. And my M-16, of course. I wouldn’t go anywhere without it.”
Broiling hot sun, combined with assault weapons. Sweet!
“Tell me more,” I said, taking a tiny sip of champagne. I hated the stuff—it was so light and airy that even angels would have bitched about it—but my current Tall, Dark, and Handsome had ordered it as soon as we’d entered the Champagne Room. Maybe he thought it was obligatory. “Why’d you become a ranger?”
“I’m third generation. My parents both were rangers, and my grandpa before them. I love being part of the park service. And I love our mission.”
He took a deep breath, then said in a practiced sing song: “To conserve the scenery, and the natural and historic objects, and the wild life therein, and to provide for the enjoyment of the same, in such manner and by such means as will leave them unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations.” He grinned at me before taking a deep swig of champagne. “Congressional Organic Act, 1916.”
“Impressive.” Me, I preferred the Orgasmic Act of the here and now. “It’s good that you’re doing something you really believe in.”
“What about you, Jezebel? Why’d you become a stripper?”
“Oh, I needed a career change,” I said, toying with my drink. “I love dancing on stage, feeling the music moving through me. And I like taking off my clothes,” I added with a wink. “So I decided to become an exotic dancer.”
He said nothing for a moment as he stared at my face, a goofy smile on his lips. Based on how he was making with the soulful looks, Ranger seemed more turned on by my large green eyes than by my breasts doing their own rendition of “June is Busting Out All Over.” Crap, I’d guessed wrong—I’d been sure he was a boob man. There’d been a time when I automatically knew what Hook worked for each client—long hair, dangerous curves, narrow ankles, you name it. Now all I had to go by was a gut call. Clearly, that dandy “hunch” factor wasn’t as fine-tuned as my sex drive.
Mental note: Work on the whole women’s intuition thing.
Finally Ranger said, “You’re about the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Ooh. Flattery. Right up there with chocolate. “You’re a sweetie.”
“No, I mean it. Your eyes, your smile…God, your tits…”
Hah, I’d been right. Smiling, I took another sip of champagne.
He broke away from my eyes to slowly look me over, eating me with his gaze. He ogled the swells of my breasts, the curve of my hip, the V of my crotch. As he feasted on the image of my flesh, I swallowed my drink, knowing that all I was to him was eye-candy, a snapshot of sexual gratification. Nothing more.
I grinned at him, my lipstick shining in the softly lit room—enticing, advertising the things I could do to him with my mouth. That’s right. You want to taste the alcohol on my lips, want to pepper my flesh with your kisses…
As Chris Rock once said, there’s no sex in the Champagne Room. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t think about there being sex in the Champagne Room.
In the background, the music from the hidden speakers switched to Patti LaBelle’s “Lady Marmalade.” Excellent tune, sultry vocals. I let my shoulders move with the beat, felt my skin humming from the piano keys.
“Say,” Ranger said, his voice husky, “would you mind dancing for me now?”
“Love to.” I placed my glass on the side table, then rose to my feet. With my stiletto-clad foot, I nudged his legs apart. Stepping forward so that I stood between his knees, I leaned forward, shoulders back, until my rack was inches away from his sweating face. I ran my hands over my twin mounds until they nipped out, straining against the material of my gown.
He groaned, then parted his lips as if he were dying to give suck. “Oh, Jezebel…you’re killing me…”
Heh. Not even close, sweetie. I don’t do that anymore.